


andante, andante

by unsungillumination



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Project SWORN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22614211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsungillumination/pseuds/unsungillumination
Summary: in the peacetime celebrations, felix finds his king standing before the throne.they've grown into a few things since the start of the war.(done in collaboration with@jan0h_for Project SWORN!)
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius
Comments: 12
Kudos: 203
Collections: Project Sworn





	andante, andante

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for [Project SWORN](https://twitter.com/ProjectSworn), a dimilix community project! you can read the full community zine for free [here](https://projectsworn.com/wp/community/).
> 
> i collaborated with the lovely [Jano](https://twitter.com/jan0h_), whose art is featured in this piece. please check out the rest of their work!

Fhirdiad is never warm; the height of the Verdant Rain Moon, when the snow melts, is the closest it ever comes. It’s warm now—Felix is warm, at least, or a facsimile of it, from the ebb and flow of too many strangers in close proximity and the wine that’s gone to his blood. Only two goblets of it before he cut himself off. He wants to be present tonight, doesn’t want to give Sylvain any more reasons to point and laugh when his face starts to glow again.

The chatter is bright and the laughter boisterous, and with good reason, but to Felix the celebration is hollow. The war is over but not yet a creature of the distant past. It feels cold to celebrate the deaths of once-comrades when their bodies are still warm. To the citizens, the fall of the Empire signals an era of new peace; to the soldiers a new and unfamiliar silence, settling eerie like a muffling blanket over the rage of war, and too much time and space to face themselves. The King is not present, Felix realises quickly. He’s slipped away from the revelry, which means Felix can, too.

On occasion it is a curse to know him as well as Felix does but tonight, it serves him well. The war is won but troubles never cease. The fool King, ever a dweller, will never spend too long celebrating a success before he begins to mull over his next trial. Doubtless tonight, the eve of a newly united Fódlan, he is in the throne room, feeling the weight of his most recent burden. The crown, or the promise of it in the near future, weighs heavy, and the throne sits tall, and somehow it is always Felix’s job to draw Dimitri out of the spiral he is certainly sliding into—questioning worth, questioning capability, questioning everything.

(Felix finds him standing before the throne, of course.)

“Are you just going to stand?” he says in lieu of announcing his arrival. Dimitri starts and turns, watching on high from the top of the stairs, to follow Felix’s approach. His footfalls echo on the stone where he refuses to walk the long carpet. The light of the doorway is at his back; the throne room is cavernous and empty and dim, soft candlelight from the walls warring with cool moonlight filtering the dust through the tall windows. “It’s yours.”

Dimitri glances back down at the throne. “Not yet,” he says.

“You’ll continue to put off your duty?”

Dimitri’s smile when Felix reaches him is fond, if slightly teasing. “I never thought it would be you to lecture me about duty, Felix.”

“Even you’re not fool enough to deny it,” Felix replies. “The continent bows at your feet. You don’t have time to get lost in your head. You’ve lost that luxury.”

“Ah, but if you had your way, I should never have had it.” Dimitri turns back to contemplate the throne. “And you were right, of course, as I’ve learned you so often are.”

“Hm. No one realises that fast enough.”

Dimitri’s laugh is hearty and it does something to expand the warmth in Felix’s chest—perhaps the relief of knowing he can still laugh, or the life that’s returned to it, grown rich and aged to finery from the bright, delighted peal it was when they were children.

“Your absence has been noted,” Felix tells him. “What sort of an end-of-war celebration is it without the man of the hour?”

“And yet,” says Dimitri, gaze fond and warm on him again, “forgive me if I am mistaken—”

“As you often are—”

“—but you do not seem in a rush to drag me back there,” Dimitri finishes. “Ought I to point out that you are absent, too? Duke Fraldarius?”

“Don’t call me that yet,” Felix mutters.

Dimitri chuckles. “You never did much like big celebrations, did you, Felix.”

“Not for me,” says Felix. “But I’m not the king.”

“Nor am I, just yet,” says Dimitri. “Let us not waste further time pretending you are here to return me to the party, Felix—you know as well as I the value of a quiet moment alone together, to reflect.”

“Together,” Felix repeats. “I don’t recall saying I’d stay.”

“Won’t you?” Dimitri asks him, and Felix doesn’t respond—it doesn’t bear considering.

They look back at the throne. The moonlight creeps tentative on its arm, like it’s frightened to touch. It’s not alone. Dimitri seems afraid to approach it.

“You should sit,” says Felix. Dimitri glances back at him. “See how it fits.”

“How it fits?” Dimitri chuckles. “All right, if you are the one asking. I can’t say I’m not curious.”

He rests his goblet down on one arm, then eases himself gingerly onto the seat of the throne. He looks anxiously up at Felix, as though for approval.

“It’s too big for me,” he says, to answer Felix’s silent question.

Felix snorts. “Too big? You’re stuffed into it, boar.”

Dimitri laughs again, loud and surprised. “I suppose…” he says slowly, “it must feel bigger than it is. Perhaps I must grow into it.”

“You’ve grown plenty,” Felix says, a little snippy like he’s still bitter about the further eight centimetres Dimitri had gained on him since they’d left the academy, but his gaze softens almost immediately. “Plenty,” he repeats, more softly.

“Felix…”

Felix isn’t aware of reaching out, only notices he’s done it when the backs of his fingers brush against Dimitri’s cheek, against the corner of his lips. He feels magnetic. Dimitri is gazing up at him like he might be the sun and Felix hopes his expression is more inscrutable than it feels. Sylvain has told him he tends to darken into a scowl when he’s with Dimitri and right now he’s not sure if he’d prefer that or not; the way Dimitri looks at him now makes him feel like he’s being laid bare.

“I swear it, Felix,” Dimitri says quietly, raising a hand to Felix’s, “one day, I will make of myself a man worthy of your loyalty.”

His fingers are soft against Felix’s wrist. Felix drops his gaze to Dimitri’s hand; it’s the first time in a long, long while that Dimitri’s foregone his gauntlets. Back at the party, he’d flinched from the dignitaries who’d tried to shake his hand, withdrawn into a nod and kept his hands to himself. But he doesn’t flinch from Felix when Felix twists in his hold to take his hand properly. Dimitri’s bare hands are as warm as his eye on Felix’s face.

Slowly, Felix sinks to kneel before Dimitri, keeping Dimitri’s hand in his and his eyes low.

Dimitri starts to lean forward. “Felix, what are—”

“I,” Felix says, quietly, “Felix Hugo, of Fraldarius.”

“Felix,” Dimitri says, awed into near-silence.

“Son of Rodrigue Achille of Fraldarius,” Felix continues, drawing Dimitri’s hand nearer to him, turning it carefully over in his own, “do swear to you, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd…”

“Wait,” Dimitri says softly, “Felix, wait.”

“My king,” says Felix, still more quietly, “my liege, that from this hour I will be faithful”—he bows his head, brushing his lips against Dimitri’s knuckles—“to you, in body and soul; to House Blaiddyd, in—”

“Felix,” Dimitri interrupts in a stronger voice. He tightens his grip on Felix’s hand. Felix pauses, but doesn’t look up.

Dimitri relaxes his hold, turns it to something gentler, less formal, so that he is simply holding Felix’s hand in his own. Slowly, with that same magnetic force Felix had felt before, he draws Felix back up to his feet, standing closer now to Dimitri than he had been.

Dimitri’s gaze has never left Felix’s face in all this while, and Felix feels it, roiling with easy warmth and comfort that burns worse than burning.

Felix lifts his eyes, ever slowly, slowly as he dares, and meets Dimitri’s.

“I would much prefer,” Dimitri says, more gently than he has yet, “if it suits you, that you stand by my side, and not kneel at my feet.”

He runs a thumb over Felix’s hand, impossibly tender.

“I do believe I would be lost without you, Felix,” Dimitri murmurs. “And your counsel—so clear-headed you are, where my own vision is clouded—as my equal—would you stay?”

Felix doesn’t answer. Standing over Dimitri on the throne, he gazes down, never looking away, meeting Dimitri’s warm eye with his own unfailing gaze, until Dimitri breaks into an unbearably fond smile.

Dimitri says, softly, “Felix…” He draws Felix a little closer to him and Felix goes, unthinking, letting Dimitri trace warmth up his arm.

“You smell like wine,” Felix tells him in a voice gone rough from quiet.

Dimitri laughs again and Felix feels his breath on his face. “Perhaps I got a little carried away at the festivities.” As though to make his point, he tugs a little more firmly on Felix’s arm, pulling him off balance in surprise and dragging him onto the un-gobleted arm of the throne.

“Wait,” Felix says, struggling against Dimitri’s strength to scramble to his feet again. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Come now, everyone is celebrating. Who will know?”

“You’re going to be a bad king,” Felix grumbles. Dimitri starts laughing again, clear and delighted. “You’re disrespecting tradition.”

“Perhaps,” Dimitri teases. “Perhaps that will become my new tradition.”

Felix, as irritably as he can muster, snaps, “Honestly,” but Dimitri laughs still harder. “The people of Fódlan expect certain things from you, you know.”

“Is that so,” Dimitri smiles up at him. Felix looks away, unable to stand the way Dimitri looks at him like he contains a world’s worth of answers. “Like what?”

“Like maintaining proper decorum.”

“Again, I never thought you of all people would be lecturing me on decorum, Felix. I seem to recall you being told off on many an occasion, as children, for running to hug me before you could be announced—”

“All right,” Felix grumbles, making Dimitri chuckle again.

“I’m sorry to tease,” he says. “Again, I may have had a spot too much wine.”

“Not being a drunkard,” Felix says. “That’s another thing they’ll expect.”

“Oh?” Dimitri adjusts his seat on the throne so Felix can lean more comfortably against him. “What else?”

Felix folds his arms. “They’ll expect you to take a queen at some point,” he says, a little more quietly. “So you ought to conduct yourself with a little more dignity, wild beast. How do you expect to court a lady with such boorish behaviour?”

“To take a queen,” Dimitri muses. “Are such things necessary?”

“You will need to marry at some point,” Felix tells him.

Dimitri’s smile is a bit dry. “Will I, now? And whom do you know of, who might be willing to wed the boar prince?” His voice has gone teasing again; Felix privately vows to stand between Dimitri and further alcohol in the future.

“Don’t be foolish.” Felix pointedly does not answer his question, instead raising Dimitri’s hand to observe his fingers, still intertwined with Felix’s own. “This space”—he nudges lightly at Dimitri’s ring finger—“ought not be empty for too long. Not as a king, if you wish your people to be settled. You will need an heir.”

“Is that so?”

“If you intend to have me as your advisor, you would do well not to shirk my advice,” Felix says, nettled by the lilt to Dimitri’s smile.

But Dimitri just tilts his head, acquiescent. “I would do well to heed it in any case—though I would not have you as my advisor alone, given my way,” he says, face gone a little redder, though Felix is keen to attribute this to the wine.

“And?” Felix can feel his own face going warm and hopes the candlelight won’t give him away. “Will you listen, then?”

Dimitri clucks his tongue. “Why the rush? Perhaps I wish to marry for love.”

The gaze is back—the terribly fond one that makes Felix’s face burn and eyes slide away. His voice is lower when he says, “Will that take longer?”

In the resulting pause, Felix runs his fingertips lightly over Dimitri’s empty ring finger. His eyes flick up for a moment to meet Dimitri’s and then furiously away again, when the piercing blue of Dimitri’s single iris shocks him back to himself. He snatches his hand away.

His other hand is still folded under Dimitri’s and Dimitri makes it known, stroking his thumb over Felix’s wrist. Felix won’t look at him, perched at his arm, but feels Dimitri’s tender gaze back on him again and makes a point of not glancing back. It would make him go red, and then again with mortified anger.

“Felix,” Dimitri murmurs.

“What.”

Dimitri reclaims his hand, so that he’s taken one in each. He moves his thumb to run it lightly over Felix’s ring finger in turn.

“What,” says Felix, in a slightly more cracked voice.

“And what of you,” Dimitri asks gently. “Will your hand remain unadorned much longer?”

“Why do—” Felix clears his throat. Dimitri is so warm. So warm against him. “Why do you care.”

“Perhaps,” says Dimitri, “I would hate to miss you. That’s all.”

Felix raises his eyes. Dimitri’s own eye is warm as the base of candlelight.

Hesitantly, Dimitri says, “I am selfish. You see… I don’t want to have to share your time and attention with anyone else.” He smiles, suddenly teasing. “Not when I already have your sword to compete with.”

Felix feels his face crumple instantly into a scowl again, which only makes Dimitri laugh and tilt his head; Felix feels Dimitri’s warm gaze roving over his face like Dimitri had really touched him, smoothing his features the way a light hand would.

“Felix…” Dimitri’s voice is too tender. He raises Felix’s hand to touch his lips lightly against Felix’s knuckles. In a flash, Felix feels an unspoken oath. He swallows, close to bursting with something ineffable.

“Stupid boar,” he mutters instead, lowering his head and looking away. His face is warm again. “Who would you be competing with?

Dimitri beams, radiant and blinding, and does his utmost to tug Felix closer. Felix, already perched precariously on the arm of the throne, topples inelegantly sideways into the seat and lands half on his lap with an irritated squawk. Dimitri’s laughter is raucous and too affectionate and he squeezes Felix around the waist, murmuring, “I cannot imagine who else I would ever want by my side…” and he kisses Felix’s head, or at least presses his mouth to the crown clumsily. “Felix…”

Felix sees him go to take his goblet from the other throne arm and swats it aside before he can. Dregs of deep red wine spill across the stone as it clatters to the floor; Dimitri gives him an affronted look and mumbles, “Hey.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” Felix says, firmly.

Dimitri laughs again, this time simmering to a low chuckle right by his ear. “Perhaps you are right. I am warm and festive enough on your presence alone, I think.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“I am,” Dimitri laughs again. “But I cannot help it, Felix.” He is too close, much too close—Felix feels his warm wine-tinged breath fanning across his face when their eyes meet. “Will you stay with me? At my side, so I can know this forever?”

The celebrations, muffled as they were already by the castle walls, feel more far-off still with the distance Dimitri’s words carry them, manifesting seclusion, as though they are not surrounded by the vast and cavernous walls of the Fódlan throne room; as though the hand cradling his side is not that of the Saviour King, as though the face spilling inexorable warmth over him with its flickering eye and glowing smile were his alone.

Dimitri’s thumb has not left Felix’s fingers. “This had better not be a proposal,” Felix manages. “If it is, it’s a shitty one. I knelt for you, so you—” But Dimitri is laughing again, pressing their foreheads together.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “No, rest assured… Felix, there will be time for that later.” Close together like this, Felix feels beginnings of things that have entirely nothing to do with the close of the war. He closes his eyes and lets Dimitri press him still closer. “This is not something I intend to rush.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!
> 
> twitter: [@corviiid](https://twitter.com/corviiid)


End file.
